


Want You to Haunt Me

by WhichWolfWins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Disturbing, Haunting, Inconsistent chapter lengths, Incubus/succubus, M/M, Masturbation, Mind Games, Mycroft worries constantly, Possibly Confusing, Spooky, UA - Universe Alterations, Weird
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-11-27 20:49:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhichWolfWins/pseuds/WhichWolfWins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Strange things are happening in 221B.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So far, I think I will update this (I am the slowest updater, but I can't stand giving up on fics, so no matter what, it will get an ending) in short chapters. The chapters may get longer if (when?) I have more time. This fic is in no way brit-picked or beta'd, so if you see any mistakes, they are my own and I would love for you to inform me of them! :)
> 
> This fic was inspired by [this gif](http://asherlockedwizard.tumblr.com/post/40089677860/au-meme-strange-things-are-happening-in-221b), posted here with the permission of it's creator [asherlockedwizard ](http://asherlockedwizard.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr:
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://s1352.photobucket.com/user/whichwolfwins/media/strangethings_zps290b1e25.gif.html)
> 
> Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC, and anyone else involved with the making and producing of this show. This is in no way mine; these are their toys and I am simply playing with them.
> 
>  
> 
> **Warning: This fic may be considered weird to some people. I fully intend for it to be that way. It's a horror story, after all!

“This agency stands flat-footed upon the ground, and there it must remain. The world is big enough for us. No ghosts need apply.” -Sherlock Holmes, The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire.

* * *

_Spectre: A ghost, phantom, apparition. A mental image of something unpleasant or menacing._

* * *

Sherlock had been telling the truth when he’d told John his body was just transport, because that’s how Sherlock has thought of it all this time and he’s never had reason to think otherwise. At least, not until John moved in, bringing with him a duffel bag and the clothes on his back; then Sherlock began to doubt everything he’d previously thought of himself. It all started in the back of the cab when John did not tell him to piss off and instead said 'fantastic!' as if he actually meant it, and now... now Sherlock was taking a shower and he had an erection that would not go away, and John was to blame.

Sherlock closed his eyes against the torrent of water pelting him as he ducked his head under the spray and did his best to ignore the throb between his legs. Sherlock had been playing his violin when he'd heard John leave the bathroom. When he’d turned around, his violin tucked underneath his chin and his bow still sawing at the strings, he’d been met by John wearing nothing but a blue robe and carrying a towel he used to scrub his hair dry. Sherlock had watched as a bead of water trailed down John’s face, slid down his neck and into the V of his robe. He missed it as his playing became more frantic as he imagined following the water trail with his tongue, how John would look down at him, and- 

Sherlock took his erection in hand and gave it a stroke that had him bracing himself against the wall of the shower with his free hand. He was achingly hard already and he sped up his strokes, needing to just get it over with. He wasn’t very skilled at this, didn’t do it unless it needed to be done, so it was always a surprise to him how good it could feel. His knee jumped as he swiped his thumb over the tip, his legs shook as he gripped just a little tighter in pulses, and soon his toes curled on the porcelain floor as he felt the warmth of his approaching orgasm. 

Stifling a moan, Sherlock dropped his head against the shower wall, producing a thump John probably heard, and sped up even more, panting in the steam as water sluiced down his back. He imagined John there in the shower with him, standing behind him with his hand on Sherlock instead of Sherlock's own. Sherlock was just there, just on the precipice at the thought of John touching him like this, almost antsy with the anticipation of release, when the room went black. 

Sherlock startled and let go of himself. He gasped in the dark, trembling from the sudden loss of stimulation. He swallowed and reached for the shower curtain and pulled it open to peer into the dark bathroom. “John?” he called, thinking perhaps his flatmate hadn't realized he was in there and shut off the lights. John had made a point of making sure Sherlock knew when the bills needed to be paid, so they couldn't have been shut off, and the sky had been clear when Sherlock had gotten in the shower, so a blackout caused by a storm was unlikely. 

When John didn’t reply, Sherlock called louder. “John,” he yelled over the sound of the shower still running. He hadn’t even washed himself yet and he was dreading the thought of being stuck showering in the pitch black. He'd never much liked the dark. 

“Oi, what’s with the yelling?” he heard John call back from the kitchen, then there were footsteps in the hall and John said, “Sherlock, are you okay in there?” 

“Did you turn out the lights?” Sherlock grimaced at the sound of his own voice. He was still feeling a bit breathless from his earlier activities. He could feel his erection going limp and he pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance. 

“The lights? No, why would I do that?” John said, sounding concerned. 

“It’s pitch black in here, John,” Sherlock said. 

John hummed on the other side of the door. “I’ll go ask Mrs, Hudson if she’s having anything done,” John said, and then Sherlock heard his retreating footsteps on the hardwood. 

Sherlock groaned and reached blindly for his shampoo. He felt oddly dejected after his vanishing orgasm, after all that build up and then-. He cupped shampoo in his hands and lathered it into his hair with his eyes closed. Sherlock really didn't like the dark and especially not right now. He had an uncomfortable feeling prickling his skin, like he wasn’t the only one in the bathroom. He ignored the feeling, though, because it wasn't like he thought there was someone sneaking about, preparing to kill him. No, it was more like- 

The lights flicked on then and what Sherlock saw had him startling back against the other end of the shower in shock. His hand flew to his mouth to cover his gasp and he stared in horror. 

There was blood everywhere. Dripping down the walls, raining down from the showerhead, swirling down the drain. So much blood, like a murder had just occured. And then Sherlock blinked, and there wasn’t. 

Sherlock blinked again and looked down at the bright white of the porcelain beneath him in disbelief of what he’d just seen. He rubbed at his eyes with his soapless wrists and checked to make sure it was still not there. The porcelain remained as white as ever, not a spot of blood anywhere. 

Sherlock missed John’s approach, so when his friend’s voice came from the other side of the door, Sherlock sucked in a deep breath of the steamy air and tried to keep his trembling to a minimum. “She says there shouldn’t be anything wrong. Maybe it’s the light bulb,” John suggested. 

It took Sherlock a few more breathes before he felt he could reply. “It’s back on,” he replied as firmly as possible to keep his voice from shaking. 

“Alright, then,” John said. 

Sherlock listened to John’s footsteps as he walked away. When he no longer heard them, Sherlock released all the air in his lungs in a long, steady stream and slumped back against the wall. Perhaps he'd gone a little too long without eating, Sherlock told himself. He could probably use some sleep, too. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laid down in his bed. 

Sherlock stepped back underneath the now-cold water and scrubbed his whole body clean, trying to get rid of the prickling sensation all over his skin.


	2. Chapter 2

When Sherlock came out of his bedroom later that evening, he was wearing his pyjamas and his blue dressing gown with the sash loosely tied around his waist. There were pillow creases on his cheek. He walked over to the sofa and plopped down, pushing his face into the crevasse between the damask pillows and the back cushion.

“Are you going back to sleep?” John asked, taking a sip of his tea and changing the page in his book. The book was laid across his lap. 

Sherlock hummed in reply. 

“What’s wrong with your bed then? Tell me those bloody ants aren’t back.” 

Sherlock huffed. “No, John, the ants aren’t back." 

John finished off the last of his tea. He picked up his book and set it on the side table before he rose to carry the empty mug to the sink. “I’m gonna go get some milk,” John said as he came back into the sitting room. 

Sherlock turned around watched as John crossed the room to grab his jacket. 

“What is it?” John said, glancing over at him as he slid his arms into the sleeves. 

Sherlock pressed his lips together and didn’t say a thing. 

“Alright, then, I’m going,” John said, pausing at the door to give Sherlock one last chance to say whatever it was he wasn’t. When Sherlock didn't say anything further, he sighed and stepped out the door. 

Sherlock listened to the sound of John’s footsteps as he left 221B, then he peered over at his bedroom door. After his shower, he’d dressed in his pyjamas and gone quickly to sleep, only to be woken up a few hours later by the sound of someone moving around in his room. He’d cracked open his eyes, moaning as he dragged himself out of a heavy sleep to see why it was that John was in his room. He found that there was no one else there besides himself. 

There was really no reason to tell John, Sherlock decided as he quickly looked away from his bedroom door and allowed his eyes to close. John would only get worked up and have bars put on his windows or do something equally annoying, thinking someone was breaking into their flat. He'd been tempted to ask John not to leave, or to at least wait until he was asleep, but he'd held his tongue, because he didn't have the right answers to the questions John was likely to ask, like _what's wrong?_ It was one of those rare occasions where Sherlock was not sure. 

_I just need some sleep_ , Sherlock told himself, pulling his knees up and curling in on himself. Everything would go back to normal after he just had some sleep, he was sure of it.


	3. Chapter 3

When John returned to the flat, he carried the milk to the kitchen and slid it onto the rack in the fridge. The flat had felt cold before he’d left, but now it felt even worse. The tip of his nose and ears felt like ice, and he could feel each cold inhale of air like it was winter.

John quickly turned the kettle on and glanced over at Sherlock. His back was to John and he was pressed against the back of the sofa, likely searching for some source of non-existent heat in the thick fabric. Leave it to Sherlock to be too lazy to get himself a blanket when he was cold. 

With a quiet sigh, John crossed the kitchen and went to his armchair to retrieve the plaid blanket over the back. He went over to Sherlock and reached out to touch Sherlock’s skin, which was freezing cold and covered in goosebumps. John quickly shook out the blanket and draped it over his friend, tucking it in gently around Sherlock’s hunched and shivering frame. 

On his way back to the kitchen, he checked the thermostat and turned it up a bit before he went to pour himself a hot cup of tea. As he was taking a packet of tea out of the box, his breath clouded in front of him and someone ran their finger up his back, sending a cold, arousing shiver up his spine and causing the light hairs on his body to stand on end. John spun around, splashing a drop of hot water onto his wrist as he did, but there was no one in the kitchen besides him. 

John took a shaky breath and scrubbed a hand over his face. Oddly enough, his cock was throbbing pleasantly in his jeans despite the cold. John turned back to his mug and dropped the tea bag inside, then took the stairs two at a time up to his room to escape the strange feeling overwhelming him, like someone else was in the flat besides him and Sherlock. He quickly wrapped himself up in a blanket and tried to forget about the weird occurrence in the kitchen and in his pants.

He had trouble falling asleep that night.


	4. Chapter 4

When Sherlock woke up, it was to a much warmer flat. He glanced down at the blanket draped over him and felt a smile spread across his lips. Rather reluctantly, Sherlock got up to relieve himself in the bathroom, then returned to the sitting room. Just in time for his watch to beep, telling him it was time to check on the mold experiment he was doing on sandwich-cut meats.

About half an hour later, Sherlock heard the sound of John coming down the stairs. He frowned, noticing the hesitance and slowness of his flatmate's steps. Sherlock spared a glance at John as he came into the kitchen and confirmed his suspicion. John’s body was even more alert than it usually was. His shoulders were pushed back and there was the notable teeth indentations on John’s bottom lip that spoke of worrying it between his teeth. 

“Morning,” John mumbled as he passed Sherlock on his way to the fridge. He pulled out the bread and strawberry jam, then carried them over to the toaster. He popped in two pieces of bread, put on the kettle while he waited for them to brown, then popped in two more and poured tea for two. 

John slid a plate of toast and a mug of tea onto the table beside Sherlock, making sure to keep it at a distance from whatever it was Sherlock was doing with... It was covered in mold, whatever it was. 

Sherlock listened as John went back to the counter and stayed quiet. It was a few minutes later, after John had nibbled away one corner of his toast and set it down, that John sighed. Sherlock heard him shift around, most likely turning to lean against the counter. “Has anything... weird happened to you lately?” John eventually asked. 

Sherlock closed his eyes in relief at finding out that he wasn’t the only one going insane. “How do you mean?” he asked, dropping a piece of what might have been turkey into a test tube and a piece of ('god, please let that be ham') ham into another. 

“Random cold spots, someone’s watching you when no one’s there... that sort of thing?” 

It was a moment of silence before Sherlock replied. “No...” he said, dropping what John hoped was a bacon piece into another test tube. “How could someone be watching me when they aren’t there?” 

John was quiet a while before Sherlock heard the sound of him picking up his plate and mug. “I don’t know,” John said, the disappointment evident in his voice. “I think I’ve been overworking myself a bit. We were up for, what was it, three days straight for that last case? My brain must be still trying to make up for it. I knew we should have gotten checked out! Three days without sleep and getting caught in a rainstorm can’t have been very good for us.” 

Sherlock hummed his agreement and resumed his experiment, hoping John was right and they’d just been a little bit under the weather. He resumed his experiment, watching out of the corner of his eye as John headed into the sitting room.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s four days of recuperation later, after the end credits of an episode of Doctor Who have scrolled across the screen and Sherlock had turned off the telly, that something else occurs. John has just washed their dishes in the sink and headed up to bed, leaving Sherlock sitting alone in the quiet living room beside the warm cushion John recently inhabited.

Sherlock was staring at the blank screen, trying to decipher what it was about John that made Sherlock want to take up the space that separated them and feel John's warmth pressed against him, want to touch John and feel the texture of his skin and the slightly fading muscle tone in his arms and the golden light hairs on his arms. The t.v. suddenly turned on. 

Sherlock blinked his eyes to focus on the fuzzy screen. He glanced over at the remote resting innocently on the arm of the sofa where John had left it. He hadn’t sat on it by accident or anything, so it couldn’t have been him that turned the t.v. on. He reached over and took up the remote, then clicked the t.v. off, only for it to come right back on again. 

In seconds, Sherlock was up and across the room yanking the plug out of the socket, forcing the t.v. back to its neutral state of black. His heart was racing in his chest as he gripped the cord in his hand and stared at the dark screen, daring it to turn back on. 

When nothing more happened, Sherlock threw down the cord with an exasperated sigh and went to his room. 

Walking into his bedroom was like stepping into a freezer. Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks as the cold covered his body instantly with goosebumps and his breath puffed out as white clouds in front of him. 

Sherlock spared his window a glance, making sure it was closed like he’d left it. Finding the window sealed shut, Sherlock turned on his heel and left his room. He didn’t stop walking away until he was all the way up the stairs and standing in front of John’s bedroom door. 

Sherlock hesitated for a few moments, talking himself out of it, until a shiver shook his body and he tapped his knuckles quietly against the wood. Knowing John was asleep inside, he cracked the door open, slicing the bedroom floor with a ray of light. “John?” he called quietly, his voice coming out almost choked. 

The springs of John’s bed decompressed as John shifted and lifted his head off of his pillow. “Case?” he said, his voice sounding tired, yet hopeful. Like Sherlock, John had been wanting a case to take their minds off of the strange occurrences in the flat. 

“No,” Sherlock said. He hadn’t had time to think about what he would say to John and he was at a loss for words. He hadn’t told John about the strange things that he’d been experiencing. 

After the blackout in the bathroom and the presence in his bedroom, Sherlock had been having a frequent feeling as if eyes were on him and someone he couldn’t see was in the room with him. He'd already swept their flat many times over the past few days in search of something, anything, that might be the cause for his anxiety, but he'd found nothing. He didn’t want to tell John about the incidents, because he didn’t want to worry him and he couldn’t explain what was happening. He thought it best for John to continue to believe that he’d been feeling off because they’d really worn themselves down with their last case, because he knew John had a tendency to dwell on things and overreact a bit, and now here he was with his flatmate waiting expectantly for an explanation for his presence in his bedroom, and the only thing that Sherlock could think to say was the truth, and he knew he couldn’t. 

“It appears that the heater’s broken downstairs and you’re the only other source of heat besides the oven, but I have the pigeons in there, so that leaves you to keep me warm.” 

John dropped his head back onto his pillow, then a moment later, after the words sank in, he rolled over to face Sherlock in the dark. “There’s this invention that’s rather quite lovely for things like that,” John said, his voice clear of the tiredness and replaced with irritation. “It’s called a blanket.” 

“Yes, John, but my bedroom is cold, as is my blanket, and you disposed of all the extra linens because of the fire ants, remember? That leaves you and your blanket.” 

John sighed and pressed his face into his pillow to groan. “If I find out that you’re actually here because the ants are back, I will cut all your hair off.” 

Sherlock chuckled as he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him with a click. “No you wouldn’t,” he said as he let his housecoat fall to the floor and slipped in between the sheets next to John. “You like my hair, think it adds to the whole tall, dark and handsome mystique I’ve got going.” 

John’s reply was muffled by his pillow and Sherlock tugged at the pillows corner, pulling it toward him. 

“What are you doing?” John said, peeking at Sherlock and pressing his head down into the pillow to try to keep it pinned in place. 

“You’ve got one pillow, John. It appears we’re going to need to share.” 

John released another, heavier sigh. “I’m starting to think it would be better off if you went back to your own bed.” 

Sherlock shifted until he was on his side with his back to John and nestled his head onto the pillow’s corner with a satisfied sigh. “Better off for whom?” 

John’s only reply was a grunt and then soft snores a few moments later. 

Sherlock swallowed hard upon realizing he was all alone once more. His eyes drifted across John’s dark room and a shaky breath escaped him. There, tucked into the shadowy corner, Sherlock was certain he saw the pitch black silhouette of someone standing. Watching. Waiting.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock is aware that he must’ve fallen asleep at some point, because one moment he’s staring at the shifting shadows in the corner of John’s bedroom and the next the walls are covered with flickering candle light. The shadow in the corner is still there, but now it’s more defined, an obvious silhouette lined by gold.

Sherlock would recognize that silhouette anywhere, the set shoulders and short stature emblazoned into his memory a long time ago, never to be deleted. 

“John?” he calls to the shadowy corner, dark despite the candles set around the the room. 

The shadows disperse and curl, as if smoke, then join together again and move out into the light, solid. John’s hair looks like golden straw lit by candle light and John himself looks like the soldier he once was, his eyes dark and hands loosely fisted at his side, his face empty of the ever-present expressions Sherlock’s come to admire. 

“John?” Sherlock calls again, and this time John moves closer, a smile pressing up the corners of his lips as he nears the bed Sherlock’s laying on. He’s underneath John’s blanket like before he’d gone to sleep, but his shoulders are bare now, the color of white gold. 

“I thought you were sleeping,” John says, and the bed dips as he climbs on top of it, one knee, then the other until he’s crossing the bed like a big cat on the prowl. His eyes are a dark blue that Sherlock’s never seen them, so dark as to almost be black, dark as the night sky without starlight. 

“I am. This is a dream,” Sherlock says. “You’re not John.” 

“I’m dream John,” the man that’s not John says, his smile an amused curl. It's too smug to be John’s smile. 

“I’ve had dreams of John before, and you’re not him.” 

“But you don’t care about that, do you? As long as I look like him, right? As long as I play him, it’s okay. Right, Sherlock?” 

The voice is oddly comforting, despite the fact that it doesn’t sound entirely like John’s. There’s a smug cockiness to it that ruins the facade, but it also makes Sherlock feel a heat in his belly that he’s become all too familiar with of late. 

John tugs the blanket aside to reveal the rest of Sherlock’s body, naked despite him having fallen asleep with pyjamas on. The man posing as John smiles and bends down to press a kiss just above the dark curls around the base of Sherlock’s erection, which has just made itself known. The simple touch sends warmth tingling through Sherlock and he moans, tossing his head back against the pillow as his cock leaks precome and hardens even more. 

“Yes,” Sherlock gasps, the intensity of it overwhelming. He's never felt this aroused before. His cock is throbbing and the tip is inflamed with his arousal. There are tears in his eyes and he just wants to come, but he can’t; something’s preventing him from coming. “Yes, John,” he grinds out, squeezing his eyes closed, but these aren't the words he wants to say. “Please,” he cries. 

The heat begins to fade and Sherlock opens his eyes to morning light shining through a thin white curtain. He doesn’t even have to look to know that he’s tenting the blanket. The weight of the cloth is agonizing and he has to shift to relieve the ache. He remembers John leaning over him, kissing him, and he has to choke back a sob. 

“Sherlock?” John says, sounding concerned. 

Sherlock turns, wide-eyed, to face his friend in the bed beside him. He’d forgotten where he was for a moment, the dream weighing heavy on his mind. “Hmm?” 

“Are you okay?” John asks. His eyes are clear blue in the bright light of morning. They look like crystals, shiny from sleeping. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Sherlock asks, frowning. 

“You’re crying,” John says. His voice sounds quavery. 

Sherlock’s hand flies up to his cheek and he pulls back damp fingertips. 

“Sherlock, what’s-” 

Before John can finish asking, Sherlock throws back the blanket and leaves John’s room. He takes the stairs two at a time, then goes into the bathroom. He’s startled by his reflection. His hair is standing on end, he’s as white as a sheet, and there are silvery lines of tears cutting paths down his cheeks. 

Sherlock quickly wipes them away and runs the faucet to splash warm water on his face. When he straightens, he watches as drops of water race down his face and drip off his chin onto the sink. He’s standing so close to the mirror that his breath clouds the glass, but it’s not enough to cover up his reflection as a smile spreads across his lips and suddenly there’s dark laughter in his eyes. 

Sherlock startles back against the door and his reflected self does the same, staring back wide-eyed and terrified. Sherlock leaves the bathroom in a hurry. He goes to his room, switches his sleep clothes for the first outfit he can find, then he leaves the flat. 

He’s shaking as he steps out onto the sidewalk. He loops his scarf around his neck and walks down the street, and he doesn’t stop walking until a black car pulls up at his side. He slides into the back seat and allows Mycroft to pick him up. His cheeks are so cold that he doesn’t even know if they’re damp or not, but his eyelashes are stuck together at the tips with frost, so he believes he’s been crying. His feet are frozen, his toes gone numb; he's forgotten his shoes. 

Mycroft is silent on the seat opposite, looking at Sherlock’s reflection in the mirror instead of directly at him. He doesn’t know if his brother and John have gotten in another fight or if his brother’s high. All he knows is that his brother needs him, even if he will never admit it. 

Mycroft has his driver take him and his brother on a tour through London until his shaking subsides subtly and his brother’s eyes drift closed. Sherlock's head tilts against the cold glass of the window and his breaths are visible in the window fog. He sends a quick text and has his driver turn left. 15 minutes later, the shiny black car pulls to a stop. It’s dark out, pitch black with nary a star in sight, as Mycroft steps out of the car. He circles around and gently opens the opposite door so as not to spill his brother onto the pavement. 

The older brother scoops the younger brother up under his knees and across his back and Sherlock tucks his sleeping head into the curve of his neck. Mycroft carries Sherlock up the stairs to the flat he shares with the ex-army doctor, John Watson, and he continues on inside until he reaches Sherlock’s bedroom door. He manages to ease it open and slip inside to carry Sherlock to his bed. He tugs unravels his brother's scarf, removes the beloved Belstaff coat, then covers Sherlock with his olive green comforter. 

When Mycroft shuts off the bedroom light, a chill runs down his spine. He turns around to look back into the dark room, his eyes slit as he scans the room. He remembers nights like these, when Sherlock was young and still afraid of the dark, when Sherlock was high and afraid of the shadows, and he can’t help but flick the light back on and enter Sherlock’s bedroom once more. Mycroft walks around the room, checking every nook and cranny for anything that might be lurking out of sight to harm his brother. 

Finding nothing, Mycroft heads to the door. He steps out of the room and closes the door with a soft click behind him, leaving the light on to keep his brother safe from the monsters.


	7. Chapter 7

John wakes up when the morning light breaks across his face. He sits up quickly, not having realized he’d fallen asleep, and gets out of bed. He’s still wearing his shoes, his clothes from the day before. He’d dressed, planning to go out in search of Sherlock, but had been stopped by a well-timed text from Mycroft letting him know that they’d picked Sherlock up.

John heads down the stairs and finds the sitting room and kitchen empty of Sherlock. Sherlock's bedroom door is closed. With a sigh, John goes into the kitchen and puts the kettle on. He stands, staring at the kettle for a moment, before his cluttered thoughts begin to overwhelm him. He goes to the fridge, grabs out the carton of eggs, inspects them for signs of tampering. Finding no suspicious marks, John sets down the carton on the counter and continues to pull out the makings for an omelet. 

He tries to focus on cooking to keep his mind off Sherlock’s reaction the day before, of his own reaction to sleeping beside Sherlock, and the strange occurrences that seem to be behind it all, but he can’t stop thinking about waking to Sherlock crying out in his sleep, begging John ‘please, please’, his whispered, ‘stop, John, please’, so quiet John had barely heard it. 

John had turned slowly, shifting ever so carefully under the blanket to face Sherlock. What he’d found had stopped his heart in his chest. Tears were cutting down Sherlock’s face and there was someone standing beside Sherlock with their hands tucked into Sherlock’s curls. 

John could barely make out its features, they were so blurry and hazy. The thing was standing mostly in shadow and when the sun hit it, the light fractured as if deflected. Like drops of ink in a glass of water, the darkness inside it dispersed and swirled, until there was enough ink added that it was all-consuming, and the thing became solidly black. One moment, it was almost completely transparent and the next it was nearly opaque. 

The thing didn’t appear to even notice John, it was so focused on Sherlock. John called to his flatmate, quietly, trying to avoid detection, but Sherlock continued shaking, writhing, whimpering. 

John couldn’t bear it. There were tears in his eyes as he reached out and cupped Sherlock’s cheek, whispering his name and trying to call him back to consciousness. The moment he touched Sherlock, it was like he’d been struck by lightning. It was painful and he jerked his hand back just as the strange shadow did the same. John cradled his hand to his chest and watched as the shadow disappeared completely. 

“Sherlock?” he whispered eventually, when the pain in his body started to fade. 

There was a ringing in John’s ears as Sherlock woke and colors looked too bright; he could see every bit of green, blue, and gray in Sherlock’s eyes as Sherlock turned to face him, every shade of brown and gold in Sherlock’s black curls. He could hear Sherlock’s racing heartbeat across the chasm between them. He could feel how cold Sherlock was in the otherwise warm bedroom. 

Even now, standing in front of the oven with a lightly golden omelet on the skillet before him, it’s like he’s seeing every shade of every color around him. He can see specks of dust in the air, hear the cars passing by outside and every creak and groan of the apartment around him, smell every ingredient in the omelets he’s making, the pulp in the orange juice waiting on the counter. Everything seems clear to him. 

John scoops the large omelet off the skillet and cuts it in half, places a slice of toast on the plate, makes sausage and bacon to slide onto the plates, then he carries one to Sherlock’s bedroom door. He can’t hear soft snoring on the other side, but he can hear breathing. 

He knocks lightly on the door, the sound of it loud on the strong wood, and waits for a response from Sherlock. When he doesn’t hear anything, he calls through the door. “I’m coming in,” he says. He sets the orange juice on the floor, noticing the hardwood needs to be swept, and cracks the door open before stooping to pick it back up again. 

Sherlock is laying in the bed with his back to John; he looks so small in his bed and John swallows before saying, “I made breakfast. You’re eating.” 

Sherlock turns and he sits up. He looks a little pale and there are faint bags under his eyes. He doesn’t look at John, his eyes instead on the fluttering curtain over the window. Sherlock’s bedroom light is on. John wonders how long he’s been awake; he doesn’t look like he’s slept much at all. 

“When’s the last time you ate?” he asks as he sets the breakfast table down over Sherlock’s thighs, being careful not to spill the juice. 

“I’m not hungry,” Sherlock says instead of answering, but he picks up his fork and begins to eat the omelet. John blinks at how quickly Sherlock devours the food. 

“Yeah, and I’m not living with a mad man,” John mutters as he forces himself to leave the room. He doesn’t have an excuse to stand and watch Sherlock eat, doesn’t think Sherlock would appreciate it, so he goes into the sitting room and sits down in his armchair, and he tries not to think about how hard he’d gotten when Sherlock had been moaning his name the other night. He tries not to think about the wicked grin he’d seen flash on the shadows blurry face and how familiar it had been. He tries not think about what's happening - in their flat, to Sherlock, to him - but he can’t take his mind off of it. 

When John gets tired, he doesn’t think about what he’s doing - he’s testing a theory. He goes into Sherlock’s bedroom, still wearing his pyjamas from the night before, picks the breakfast tray with the empty plate up off the bed and sets it down on the floor, and crawls under the blanket beside Sherlock. His flatmate looks at him with a look of confusion creasing his brows, but John only gives him a soft smile and wraps his arm around Sherlock’s waist, rests his forehead on Sherlock’s shoulder, and goes to sleep. 

The bedroom light is still on, the room completely bathed in its glow. 

The two get a night of peace. 

And nothing happens the following week. 

They start a new case. Things stop seeming so sharp to John and Sherlock begins to look healthy again. They continue sleeping beside each other. John begins to think maybe it's over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys must hate me; another short chapter!


	8. Chapter 8

The week ends with them running breathlessly after a man who has murdered five people in the past month. Sherlock manages to guide the man into an alley that stops at a dead end and John tackles the murderer to the ground, scraping up his knuckles on the pavement as he does.

When Lestrade arrives, he has the man cuffed and carted away. Sherlock and John follow in a cab to the Yard, where they fill out the necessary paperwork about the case. Afterward, they flag another cab and slip into the backseat. They start giggling almost instantly. 

“Who the hell slips and falls on rocks when running from a mad man?” John manages to say. His laughter turns almost manic at the memory of Sherlock’s feet slipping out from under him and Sherlock trying to catch himself with his hands, only to lose his footing completely and scrape his chin on the pavement. 

“You’re one to talk! Did you really try to trip the man?” 

“Hey! It worked!” 

“Except that it made him barrel you over on his way down! The man was 6 foot 5, John! He weighed nearly 11 stone more than you!” 

John wipes the tears from his eyes and Sherlock’s eyes catch on his hands. He reaches out and circles his fingers around John’s wrist to still his hand. “You’re hurt,” Sherlock says, looking at John’s scraped up knuckles. 

“I’ve got most of the rocks out,” John says. “I can get the rest out with a pair of tweezers once we get home. Your chin looks pretty banged up, too,” John says. “They should scab over in just a couple days.” 

Sherlock looks up into John’s eyes for a moment, causing John’s heart to skip a beat, before he looks back down at John’s injured knuckles. Without saying a word, Sherlock cups his fingers with John’s and raises John’s knuckles to his lips. He kisses the damaged skin and it stings, but the warmth of Sherlock’s soft lips feels nice despite it. 

“Sherlock,” John says quietly to the top of Sherlock's dark curls. Neither man is sure whether it’s to chastise or a praise. 

The car eases to a stop outside 221 and Sherlock releases John’s hand to pay the cabbie. Without a word, Sherlock slips out of the car and heads for the stairs. He can’t believe what he’s just done. It had felt nice to touch John in that way and the fact that John didn’t get angry with him, at least not yet, left a hopeful warmth in Sherlock’s chest. Still, he’s mad at himself, because he wants John so much and he’s done something that Mycroft had warned him could ruin everything. What if John can never look at him the same again because of it? 

_It’s not like you shoved your tongue down his throat_ , Sherlock chides himself, _no matter how much you want to_. 

He lets himself into 221B and goes to his room. He instantly sheds his clothes and slips into his pyjamas. He’s not tired, but he needs the simple pleasure of comfortable clothes. 

When he comes out of his bedroom, John is walking toward the bathroom. 

“Come on,” John says, jerking his head in the direction of the bathroom. “Let me take care of that for you.” 

Sherlock follows quietly and sits down on the edge of the bathtub as John sits on the toilet lid. He rips open a disinfectant pad and cups Sherlock under his chin to swipe at Sherlock’s battered skin. Sherlock hisses at the sting and John ignores him. He coats the tip of a cotton bud with Triple Antibiotic Ointment and coats Sherlock’s chin with it before ripping open a plaster. 

“You’re not putting a plaster on my chin,” Sherlock says, turning his head out of John’s hold. 

John sighs. “For someone who claims not to care what people think, you sure do care a lot about what people see when they look at you.” 

John grabs a new disinfectant wipe and begins dabbing at his scratched up knuckles. 

“Here, let me,” Sherlock says. 

John looks up, surprised, and Sherlock ignores him, taking the wipe from John’s fingers and carefully swiping it over John’s wound to remove the dirt and the bacteria as best he can. John douses the tweezers in disinfectant, as well, and Sherlock uses them to remove the small rocks remaining in John’s skin. Once he’s finished, he wipes John’s knuckles again and applies the ointment to the wound. 

“You’re forgetting something,” John says. 

Sherlock looks up and John is smiling at him. “What?” 

John laughs and hands Sherlock an elastic bandage. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and rips open the pack. He unravels the bandage and wraps it around and around John’s knuckles, his hand, and his wrist until he can no longer wrap it, then he cinches it closed with the metal clasps. 

“Thank you,” John says. He looks down at Sherlock’s hands, which are both holding John by his wrist, and Sherlock draws his hands away. 

“Thank _you_ ,” Sherlock responds. He stands up and heads for the door. “Good night, John,” he says, before slipping out of the room. 

Over the past week, they’d formed a routine. John would go to Sherlock’s room and go to sleep and, eventually, Sherlock would slip quietly into the dark room and make his way to the bed to crawl under the blanket beside John. The only night the door had been closed was the first night when John first climbed into the bed with Sherlock; every day that followed, John left the door wide open. 

Tonight, Sherlock closes the door. He closes it and goes to his bed, slips between the sheets, and turns toward the wall. The room is dark like it’s been almost every night with John beside him and it’s far too quiet. 

There’s a tap on his door hours later. Sherlock drags himself out of his mind palace, because he’s been unable to fall asleep, and turns toward the door. It cracks open and he can see John’s silhouette in the doorway. 

“Sherlock?” John calls softly. 

“Yes?” 

“Is it alright if I sleep in here tonight?” John asks. 

Sherlock considers saying ‘no’, but only for a second, because he’s angry with himself and knows he doesn’t deserve to be close to John. “Yes,” he says. 

John comes quietly into the room and he lifts the blanket to slip in beside Sherlock. His pyjamas brush against Sherlock’s side as he settles in. He feels warm, like he’s just climbed out of a tangle of blankets, so Sherlock wonders what could have happened to bring John down here. 

Their soft breathing fills the otherwise quiet room. 

“Sherlock?” John says, just as Sherlock is about to go back into his mind palace. 

“Hmm?” 

“Kiss me again?” 

The request takes Sherlock by surprise and he turns to face John in the dark. There are so many things he can ask right now, like: Why now? Why me? Do you want it to be soft? Hard? Sloppy? Deep? What happens after? and the most important of all of them: Is this really you? 

But Sherlock doesn’t speak up, because John has just asked him to do something he can't bring himself to refuse and he’s afraid to hear what the answers might be. He reaches out in the dark and his fingers brush John’s neck. He runs his fingers up the warm column until his fingers reach John’s hair. He passes his fingers through the soft warmth of John's hair until he reaches his ear, then his cheek. He lays his palm flat over John’s cheek and leans in until his lips meet John’s. 

Sherlock presses gentle kisses to John’s lips, one after the other, hesitant, until eventually John’s tongue runs along the seam of Sherlock’s lips. Once his tongue slips inside, it searches out Sherlock’s until they slip together. Sherlock follows the length of John’s tongue with his, turning a somewhat chaste kiss into something a little deeper. He’s never done this before, kissed or been kissed, and he finds that he likes being inside John’s mouth as much as he enjoys John being in his. 

John’s teeth close slightly, catching his and Sherlock’s tongues and holding them together as he reaches for Sherlock and cups his hips. He caresses Sherlock’s hipbones with his thumbs, drawing Sherlock’s attention to the spots just above his pyjama bottoms and the proximity of John’s hands to Sherlock’s cock. Just the thought has Sherlock growing hard. 

With his heart thudding excitedly in his chest, Sherlock trails his hands down John’s body until he reaches the elastic of John’s pyjamas. “John?” he asks. 

“Mhm,” John nods and traces the side of Sherlock’s tongue with his. 

Sherlock’s breath shudders. He curls his fingers around the band of John’s pyjamas and lowers them down over John’s erection. 

John pulls away and kisses his neck as Sherlock wraps his long fingers around John’s cock. 

“Jesus,” John mutters. He twists awkwardly and drags open Sherlock’s bedside drawer. He searches in the dark for the lotion. John gasps and nearly drops it when Sherlock pulses his hand around the head of John's cock. 

Trembling with need, John squeezes lotion into his hand and tosses the bottle aside. “Can I touch you?” 

“Yes. Please,” Sherlock says. He sounds out of breath. 

John tugs Sherlock’s sleep bottoms down and rubs his wrist against the tip of Sherlock’s cock, shocking a gasp out of him, before he joins their hands together. He tucks his head against Sherlock’s chest as he lines his cock with Sherlock’s and they take each other into their joined hands. John rolls his hips against Sherlock as he moves their hands over their erections. He stretches to kiss up Sherlock’s neck, his tongue peeking to taste Sherlock’s skin as Sherlock begins to sweat from their joined heat. 

Sherlock grips John’s hip and thrusts against him, sliding into the circle of their hands and bringing John closer. He breathes his moans into John’s hair, the pitch getting louder the closer to his orgasm John brings him. John’s lower back is slick under his fingertips and he has to dig his nails into his skin to keep John close. 

John palms Sherlock’s arse with his free hand, drawing Sherlock toward him. He slips his fingers into the crack and breathes hotly against Sherlock’s ear as he presses a fingertip slowly into Sherlock’s entrance. 

A spasm takes over Sherlock’s body and he cries out his orgasm. He comes over John’s belly in hot pulses, clutching onto him as his body jerks. John’s right there with him, fucking into their hands fast until his breath leaves him in a gust and he comes, keening against Sherlock’s chest. John releases them both before it becomes too uncomfortable for their over-sensitive pricks. 

Sherlock feels John sit up beside him and reaches out for his shoulder in the dark. “Please don’t go,” he says. 

“I’m gonna get us a damp flannel,” John tells him. He nips at Sherlock’s fingers on his shoulder. “I’ll be right back,” he says. John gets up and heads into the bathroom. 

Sherlock sighs and lays back down. The bed feels cold without John in it. He tucks his feet into the tangle of blankets and their clothes at the foot of the bed and closes his eyes to wait for John to return. He falls instantly asleep.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock doesn’t leave his room until mid-afternoon when he hears John leave the flat to go to work. He climbs out of bed feeling more tired than he did when he’d gone to sleep the night before and pulls on his housecoat. He tugs the silk robe tight around him and leaves his room to look out the window as John sets off on foot to work. Did he look like a man that had had sex with his flatmate the night before?

It was too hard to tell. John has been stressed ever since the strange occurrences had started. Even when they weren’t experiencing anything out of the ordinary, John looked hunted. His eyes looked dark, his cheeks a bit more hollow. He was more quiet and didn’t jump on Sherlock when he left a jar of left and right pinkie toes on the stovetop for three days, even when the flies started circling. 

If anything, John looks worse today than he has in the days previous. He is walking more alertly, his army training straightening out his shoulders and spine. His hands are clenched tight as he walks, his arms straight and not swinging at his sides. He looks like he might clock anyone who says a word out of line to him. 

Sherlock turns away from the window and picks up his violin with shaking hands. The music sounds wobbly as his draws his bow across the strings and he cringes. He shoves the instrument and bow back in the case and closes it. He throws himself down on the sofa and glares at the ceiling. 

He wants John. He wants him so badly he can’t think straight. Last night, he had sex with John. Whether or not it was really John, he doesn’t know, but what he does know is that he likes the way John gasped into his ear. He likes the way John kissed him like a dying man and held him close and smiled at him like he wanted to be there with Sherlock. He likes the way his name sounded as John moaned it into his skin. He wants to see John look at him with pupils the size of teacups like he did last night. 

He doesn’t know what to do. He wants to continue feeling John’s hands on his skin, but he wants to know that they’re John’s hands on him, not some... some ghosts version of John’s hands touching him. Now that he’s had that, he doesn’t want to lose it. 

He’s still laying on the couch when he hears the door slam closed. He blinks at the ceiling and looks at John as he drops a bag of heavy books on the floor and yanks off his coat. He hangs it on a hook beside Sherlock’s and picks up the bag again and heads for the stairs to his room. 

“John?” Sherlock calls to John’s back. 

John turns around and his skin looks slightly pale. His hair is sweaty at the tips and stuck to his forehead. His eyes look a darker blue than usual. John looks exhausted, but there’s a strange, almost electric energy dancing in his eyes. He looks excited. Hopeful. When his eyes settle on Sherlock, though, they lose a bit of their spark. “Yeah?” 

“You’ve got books.” 

“Yep.” 

Sherlock looks at him, a confused look on his face. “Why do you have books?” 

John smiles and opens his mouth to respond, but his eyes, looking into Sherlock’s, twitch slightly at the corners in a quick, unnoticeable-by-anyone-else flinch and John presses his lips together. “Sarah mentioned a few books she enjoyed when in school and I decided to give them a look.” 

He was lying. Sherlock wasn’t an idiot. Why, he didn’t know. He was certain this was his John, the real John, though, so he didn’t say a word. If John was lying, he had to have a good reason. 

“Do you want to order take-away for dinner?” Sherlock asks instead. 

“Could you?” John asks. “I’ll come down when it gets here,” he calls behind him as he quickly takes the stairs two at a time. His door slams, the bed creaks as John tosses the books onto the mattress, then John follows them down. 

Sherlock tucks his hands under his chin. He isn’t hungry, but he wants John to eat with him so he can memorize him again, so he can make sure he knows exactly what John looks like for certain. 

When the food comes, John doesn’t come down. Sherlock calls to him and John says he’ll be down later. It isn’t until after midnight that he hears John’s footsteps on the stairs. He goes into the kitchen and eats some lo mein noodles out of the carton. Sherlock joins him and they share the bourbon and the orange chicken. The flat’s been freezing all day, so he isn’t surprised to find that the food is as cold as if it had been in the freezer. When they’re finished, John stores what’s left in the fridge. 

“I’m going to sleep,” Sherlock informs John as he tosses the empty cartons in the bin. “Will you be joining me? 

John looks at Sherlock, his eyebrows bunched together in confusion. “What?” 

Sherlock studies John’s face and his stomach flips with nerves. “Are you sleeping in your room tonight?” he asks carefully. 

John frowns. “I do every night...“ John says. His eyes flit over Sherlock’s face. “Sherlock, have you seen another-” 

“No,” Sherlock answers quickly. “I was just letting you know that if you’re too cold, I would not be averse to sharing my bed with you for body heat.” 

John clearly doesn't believe him, judging by the suspicious slit of his eyes, but he nods. “I’ll be fine,” he says. “Good night, Sherlock.” John gives him one last curious look before he nods and leaves through the kitchen door. 

Sherlock feels like there’s something crumbling inside his stomach as he turns toward his room. He steps into his dark bedroom and hangs his housecoat on the back of the door, despite the fact that it’s shockingly cold in there, then he crawls between the sheets, still naked after the events of the night before. 

He’s still awake and shivering when John comes into his room that night, stepping quietly. The bed dips under his weight and he climbs in, cold and warm at Sherlock’s back. Sherlock’s heart freezes in his chest. 

“Still up?” John asks in the darkness. 

“Yes,” Sherlock croaks. 

John cups Sherlock’s hip with his warm hand and he presses a soft kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder. “It’s bloody freezing in here,” he says. He wraps his arm around Sherlock’s middle. “Hopefully this will help you get some sleep.” 

Sherlock closes his eyes and tears slip, slanted and silent, down his face as John breathes warm breath against his back. He wants so badly to believe that this is John, but he’s worried that it isn’t. 

John runs his hands over Sherlock’s chest, belly, hips and thighs, giving him warmth, for what feels like hours until eventually his hands still and he falls asleep, his hand warm over Sherlock’s heart and his lips still pressed to Sherlock’s skin. 

Sherlock tries to force himself to stay up, needs to stay up to know that this is John, really John, but he is just so warm with John holding him close and he can’t keep his eyes open.


	10. Chapter 10

John wakes up with a start to find Sherlock on top of him with his hands around John’s throat. He can’t breath and scrabbles at Sherlock’s hands to try to get them off, but his hands pass through them and suddenly his lap is empty and he’s gasping in the dark bedroom, lit only by moonlight.

His eyelashes are damp with tears as he lays back on his pillows, breathing in shuddering breaths. That’s when he hears it. 

There’s something very disturbing about Sherlock crying in his sleep. Every time, it starts with a soft keening, so quiet it takes awhile for John to realize what it is he’s hearing. This time, though, it’s different. Sherlock’s keening gets higher in pitch and John realizes that Sherlock hasn’t taken a breath in a long time. 

He turns over quickly, propping himself up to look at his bedmate. “Sherlock?” he calls, but Sherlock doesn’t seem to hear him. “Sherlock! Wake up, Sherlock!” 

Sherlock’s keening breaks off and he sucks in breaths that sound like whimpers. 

John knew how to deal with situations like this. In the army, he spent many nights listening to men crying softly so as not to be heard. Most people slept through it or covered their heads with their pillows to block out the noise, but John always listened, because he felt that these men shouldn’t be alone with their pain, even if they didn’t know they weren’t. 

He didn’t know how to deal with this, though. It hadn’t been until a week ago that John had heard Sherlock cry for the first time, and he couldn’t handle it. It hurt him in a way that brought tears to his own eyes and left him feelings useless. 

“Sherlock,” he called, shaking Sherlock’s shoulder. “Wake up. Please, Sherlock, wake up. Please,” he pled with tears slipping down his cheeks. 

“John,” Sherlock murmured with his eyes still closed. 

John sniffled and swiped the tears away quickly. “I think you were having a nightmare,” he explained. 

“It wasn’t you, was it?” Sherlock said, opening his eyes and looking up at John. His eyes looked silver with the moonlight hitting them just that way, lighting on the tears as they broke free of his eyes and trailed down the side of his face. “It wasn’t you, John.” 

“What wasn’t me?” John asked, his breath hitching. He reached forward and followed the path of Sherlock’s tears to dry them with his fingertips. Sherlock closed his eyes at the touch of John’s fingers and pressed closer. 

Sherlock opened his mouth to explain, but the words looked caught in his throat. “Kiss me,” Sherlock said instead. 

“Sherlock, what’s going on?” 

“Kiss me. Please, just kiss me, John.” 

John bent over Sherlock and quickly caught Sherlock’s lips with his. His top lip got caught between Sherlock’s plush lips, so he sucked on Sherlock’s bottom lip until it was ripe with blood. He slid his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth and kissed him deeply, pressing in hard so that Sherlock felt him. He clutched Sherlock’s curls in his hands and kissed him until Sherlock’s hands came up to cup his face. 

He leaned away and Sherlock smiled up at him. The smile turned to a grin and continued to stretch until it became something wicked, something amused. The hands on his face tightened and fingertips pressed hard into his neck. 

“John!” he heard, and the word echoed in the dark bedroom. He sat up with a gasp. 

“You were having a nightmare,” Sherlock said from his place in the bed beside him. He was laying on his side facing John, his hands tucked under his cheek. His lips were pressed hard together and his eyes looked wet. 

“Sorry,” John croaked, his throat still hurting. He covered his face with his hand and rubbed at his eyes. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. Go back to bed.” 

Sherlock looked suspicious, but he turned over onto his back and closed his eyes. John waited for an hour, until he was certain that Sherlock was asleep, then he climbed out of Sherlock’s bed and went up to his room. He was shaking as he collected clean clothes from his wardrobe and carried them down to the bathroom. He turned the water on hot and stepped under the spray to try to get the chill out of his bones. 

* * *

John calls into the surgery, claiming ill. He couldn’t take anymore of this. He knew Sherlock was hurting, that much he was certain, and that he had to do something to stop this. Whatever this was -he was pretty sure he already knew-, he was going to find out and put an end to it. So he ate a hearty breakfast, drank down a steaming cup of tea, and sets off on foot to the library. He knows he can sit at home and research from his laptop, but he really doesn’t want to be there right now. He makes sure the volume is at it’s highest on his phone, just in case, and asks Mrs. Hudson to check up on Sherlock every hour to make sure he’s okay while John’s away. 

Once he’s there, he sits down at a computer and sends off an email. A while back, they had a case where a psychic was found with a tarot card shoved down her throat. It had been a really fascinating case, even had Sherlock thinking for a bit. One of their two suspects was Lorna Layborne. She’d had good motive; the victim, Madame Delya, had claimed Layborne a fraud. 

In truth, it had been Delya that was the fraud, and her assistant (and real psychic) had been the one that had murdered her. Of all the people John knew, Lorna seemed the most likely person to turn to for help. He sent off the email and hoped. In the meantime, he searched the shelves for as many books as possible on exorcisms, hauntings, and, most importantly, demons. He flipped through book after book until the librarian called five minutes until closing, then he checked out the books that seemed most informative and headed home. 

* * *

The next morning, Sherlock wakes up to a knock on their front door. John isn’t in the bed beside him, so he waits for him to answer the door. When the rapping continues, Sherlock sits up with an annoyed groan and answers the door himself. 

“I certainly must say I prefer this over one of your suits any day,” Lorna Layborne said, eyeing Sherlock up and down with a twinkle in her chocolate brown eyes. 

Sherlock frowns at the psychic. She’s holding a drawstring bag made of silk in her hands and has a dusty, brown leather book tucked under her arm. There’s a smirk on her painted red lips. Sherlock crosses his arms over his silk robe. “John contacted you.” 

“Yes,” she said, her smile widening. She enjoyed bearing witness to Sherlock’s deductive skills. “It seems you have an incubus; is that right?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sherlock said in a huff, but he stepped aside and let the psychic in. “I see congratulations are in order,” he said, noting the woman’s now flat belly. “It was a girl, correct?” 

It was then that John came down the stairs from his bedroom. He was smiling brightly. “Afternoon,” he greeted as he got to the sitting room. He took note of Lorna in the doorway and nodded. 

Sherlock grumbled and went over to the sofa where he tossed himself on top of the cushions. “Get on with it,” he said impatiently. 

Lorna laughed warmly and came fully into the flat. She knelt down on the floor and began to empty her things onto a silk scarf she laid out across the coffee table. “I need a better understanding of what we’re dealing with before we can,” she said. “All I know is what John has told me, but from what he says it sounds like these occurrences are focused on you.” 

“Isn’t that enough?” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. There was a sick feeling in his stomach; he knew where this was going. He wasn’t idiot; he’d done his research. 

Lorna looked at him and Sherlock inhaled deeply. “You’re wondering if I had sex with it.” 

The psychic nodded, tucking her long blond hair behind her ear. “It would help us to determine the amount of power the demon has in it’s possession.” 

Sherlock glanced over at John who stood looking toward the window, but the alertness of his body and the clench of his jaw gave away the fact that he was listening intently. “I... don’t know,” Sherlock admitted, looking at the wall. 

“It’s common for victims to not know the difference between a dream and reality. If it was only able to have sex with you in a dream, a cleansing should be sufficient, but if it was able to hold a physical form for long enough for the event to happen, then we must turn to other means.” 

“I don’t know,” Sherlock snapped, sitting up and turning on the psychic. He had John’s full attention now, too. “There were two such ‘events’,” he said, using air-quotes, “but it looked like John. I _thought_ it was John. So I. Don’t. Know!” He laid back down on the couch and stared up at the ceiling, breathing heavily. 

There was silence for what felt like a long time before John finally spoke. “Oh god,” John gasped quietly, and Sherlock closed his eyes, his heart sinking. A sob broke from John’s throat. “Sherlock," he breathed. "I’m sorry. I'm so sorry.” 

Lorne, who’d been sitting quietly, murmuring with her eyes closed in front of a smoldering stick of sandalwood, finally came back to them. “I suspect this demon has been with you a long time, Sherlock,” she says. “I can feel the darkness of your past in your aura and demons take advantage of that; that’s their way in. It’s likely the demon has been feeding off of that darkness for years. I believe the demon felt threatened with John here. It knew of your feelings toward John and decided to use him to get to you. John told me that he woke the other night with the demon atop him. It was trying to possess John and I think it was so that it could drain you of your fantastic energies as an incubus does. It’s a good thing your John is a healer, or you would be in far worse condition than you are.” 

John sighed, rubbing at his eyes. “Can we just get rid of this fucker already?” 

Lorna nodded, the pleasure from earlier gone from her eyes now. “We’re going to all need to join hands now. No matter what, do not let go.” 

John went to sit down beside Sherlock, who was now sitting up on the sofa and he slid his hand into Sherlock’s open palm. He met Sherlock’s eyes and laced his fingers through his. “I wouldn’t dare,” he grinned.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *I've made the decision not to make this into a series.*

I had plans to write another story to follow after this, but have changed my mind. I couldn't quite get my footing. I'm sorry if I've disappointed any of you, but I don't want to continue with it if I'm just not happy. I do plan to write another scary story, though, just not in this 'verse.

I do plan to give this story a proper ending with an epilogue soon.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think of this when you have the time.
> 
> If you would like to follow me on Tumblr, you can find me [ here!](http://whichwolfwins.tumblr.com/)


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